Music touches people in different ways. Many people enjoy listening to music for inspiration, and others simply listen to it to relax. Some songs tell stories while others allow you to make your own story.

Your challenge:

Listen to the song above then take a minute or two to think about it.

Write out a scene to this song; make this song your scenes theme song.

Group Roleplays, One on One Roleplays, Chat Roleplays, Private Convo Roleplays

Posting Speed:

A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week, Slow As Molasses

Writing Levels:

Elementary, Intermediate, Adept, Advanced, Adaptable

Genders You Prefer Playing:

Male, Primarily Prefer Male

Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive:

I like to do both and collaborate with the people I am rping with. Two heads are better than one. If you have a preference one way or the other, that is fine too.

Favorite Genres:

I like most. However, I have found I am most comfortable with Fantasy, Sci-fi, Fandom, and Modern.

Genre You DON'T Like:

I am willing to try anything once.

It was finally time. All of his old friends had arrived and it was time to suit up. The cocking of firearms, zippers, and rustling of military fabric echoed, throughout the barracks. Dim lights had just enough power to keep the human outlines visible. The distant sounds of explosions just fell on their ears. They knew what was going to happen. The bloodied veterans had one last fight to take part in.

"What are your orders, Campbell?"

A fire lit up a cigar, in the corner of the room. Smoke arose in circles from the lieutenant's mouth.

"Huber, you remember when you played war in the backyard?"

"Until the sun went down, sir." retorted Huber

"That is what we will do. Last one to stop playing will be the winner. The downside is that that man...." Campbell's gaze falls to Roferkik

"or woman will be the one delivering our sorry asses back to base. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir." they said in unison.

"Well then, let us see who has the biggest cajones of them all!" Campbell yelled.

Huber watched as the cigar light traveled to the door and kicked it open, to war.

The trees of the forest were crushed by the threads of the gigantic tank, making a hellish noise composed of sickening cracks and snaps that utterly crushed the peace of the area beneath its heel. But the lone pilot of the steel monster did not care about the treasures of nature, nor the humans that fled from her invincible monster. She only cared about her enemy, the enemy she had been chasing for hundreds of years now, the enemy that she held responsible for her own state. After all, it was his fault that she almost died, and the scientist had to use a yet-untested procedure to hook her up to life support and make her more machine than human. Sure, she gained immortality, not to mention eternal youth because of it, but that did not excuse his actions. She hated him more than ever, so when she finally found a clue to his location, she followed it, not caring about the rest of the world.

The tank she was riding in was also his invention; she hijacked it with the help of her fanatic followers when it was being tested, then turned it into her personal war machine that nothing could stop. After all, it was the size of an aircraft carrier, had the armour of a nuclear shelter and was completely self-sufficient. It could cross any terrain, it carried dozens of small drones for defending itself, but its most useful feature was its absolutely terrifying size that made everybody think twice about attacking it. Just the presence of the tank was enough to send most militaries fleeing, especially after they have seen what it was capable of. It rolled from country to country, destroying everything in its path and causing more ecological damage than what humanity caused during its existence.

But for her, none of that mattered. She only wanted to take revenge on him, to make him pay for his crimes, to crucify him, gut him and hang him at the same time so he suffered as much as possible, to make his life a living hell. She wanted payback. So she steered her tank towards the direction she thought he was and increased the speed of this moving fortress, thus cracking the ground and almost crushing the Earth's crust. He would not escape her wrath.

Really depends. We'd have to discuss it. I can be talked into playing a genre I normally don't like if the plot or idea is really catchy.

Modern Fantasy is the one I dislike the most.

Standing atop the balcony overlooking the city, the King wore an expression of pain. Silent tears spilled down his aged face, sorrow echoing in his chest for his people. Even from up high, he could hear the tormented screams of women and children below and the roar of the fire spreading from home to home. Before his very eyes buildings collapsed into themselves and there seemed to be no end to the horde pouring through the city gates like a river run rampant.

"Something must be done!" he said, the words coming out forceful and desperate with a hint of pleading to his own self. He could no longer stand by idly and watch more innocent lives be stolen, no matter the cost!

With a steadily sinking heart, the dwarf king retreated back into his castle. Swiftly his tiny legs took him along the corridors and down flights of stairs, his royal cape billowing behind him until it threatened to slow his progress and he was forced to tug at the ties and abandon it to a lonesome winding staircase.

Dust sprung up from the cold stone, set to life by his padding feet. This part of the castle had not been traversed in many a year. Throwing open a creaky wooden door so forcefully that it slammed against the wall and cracked, the king strode into the dark, dank room and set his torch into a wall-mounted cradle. Soft, warm light flooded the small room and the shelves full of books and the cornered king paused a moment while the consequences of what he was about to do weighed heavily on his shoulders, pressing on his chest and making it difficult to breathe.

Or perhaps it was just the dust in the air.

Nervous sweat trickled down the king's nape and pooled at the collar of his tunic while one hesitant hand reached out to snatch a book from its self. But not just any book. A very specific book it was and its pages were filled with a very specific ink.

Knocking aside dusty items from the desk and shaking cobwebs from his arm, the king tenderly placed the book down upon the now clean surface and hesitated again. Old, callused fingers trailed along the smooth as silk surface of the book, following the engravings while his heart thumped wildly in his chest.

And somewhere in the distance came the booming of the castle's front doors being assaulted.

A deep breath. A slow exhale. And then the book was yanked open, the dagger at his side unsheathed and raised just as he did the same to his free hand. Palm upward, he cut a straight, deep crimson line along the palm, slapped down the dagger to the desk and fumbled for an empty ink bottle. The blood from his palm trinkled into the clear container just as though he were pouring a fine red wine. He tore off a piece of his undershirt and wrapped the injured hand, then, with trembling fingers he plucked up a feather quill and dipped the end into the bottle.

And he began to write.

And as he wrote, the scene outside began to change, to shift to his will.

The old man mumbled as he wrote, his heart breaking more and more. For saving the present meant putting the future at an even greater risk.

And this was the consequence of rewriting history.

The pen scratched across the page in a flurry of strokes and swoops, matching his emotions with harsh cut lines and jaged edges like a booming war drum for his anger at the invaders, soft curls and fluid curves like a crying violin for the sadness and compassion of his innocent people.

And then, rather abruptly, he stopped.

But although the knife in his back stole his life quickly, his task was complete. History had been warped for the sake of the innocent, even if it meant the innocent in the future would suffer ten fold.

Above all of his regrets, the highest one was that this blood king would not be there to suffer along with them in proper penance...

um...........
animes I don't know?
boring ones
I can never get into scifi one

Hana walked behind him, no longer pulling against the collar and chained that forced her to go with him. This was her first time. She was only seven. How could she possibly stand a chance against her opponent? He thought she was ready. So she must've been.
Hana heard the screams of the audience, waiting for the fighters to enter the ring. She wasn't scared as the lights glared into her eyes. She wasn't scared as a man stepped out. They were the same. No. Not the same. Alike. They were fighters. They had dog ears and tail. So they were fighters, but that was all.
The male looked at Hana, and smirked, "I'll go easy on ya...since you're jus' a kid"
Hana said nothing, waiting for the bell to ring. DING! Hana got a crazed look in her eye, and her posture changed. she crouched slightly, only glancing at the male before sprinting toward him.
The male laughed and held out a hand to catch her, but it was his gut that she hit. He was sent flying backward.
Unfazed, Hana ran at the dazed fighter. Her sharp nails were ready when she slashed at his throat. He screamed and punched her. She fell back, but got right back up.
Even though he was bleeding terribly from his neck, she kept coming at him. She even laughed as she made another deep gash in jugular.
Covered in blood, she stood in victory. Though she didn't care for the cheering or the yelling. She was in another world.
"Hana!" Hana blinked and looked at her master, her look of blood lust gone. She walked over, proud that she had won. So was he. A flawless victory.

High above the Siberian desert were three F-15 Eagles bound for an enemy camp just upstream from where they kept their supplies. It was to be a simple in and out, drop the bombs and get out. No one expected it to be quite the cluster it soon became. the front man lead the assault in the correct mannor, he was just horrible at aiming and it was left to his wingmen to get the job done. When he got back he bragged to the others on how well he did on the mission. His wingmen soon refused to join him in any more flights despite their commanding officers ordering them to. they’d had enough of his BS and they wanted him to recognize them as he would wish to be recognized.

Childish, maybe but it got the job done. Soon he became the laughing stock of the entire air force base and soon the guys who’d started it all began to feel bad for the guy. Pleading with their commanding officer they got their leader to get transferred to a better air force base where he would not only get the respect he so craved but the training on how to make himself better than he currently was. Back to boot camp it was and everyone agreed, accept him.

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